A Woodsman's Tale by Lorkan
Part 1 Thwak, thwak, thwak…The sound of a steel wedge biting into pine is the most familiar sound in this world to the broad shouldered lumberjack swinging the tool of his profession. He pauses only briefly to wipe the sweat from his brow, then sets into his work once more. At six foot five with an imposing build, he is easily the most formidable looking individual in this part of the Verdigris Forest. The reason he works alone is soon apparent as the tree begins fall with no holler to accompany, as he looks to the revealed sun the cause for this is apparent if anyone were there to see. A wicked scar running from his adam’s apple to an inch to the left. He gazes thoughtfully to the heavens for a moment more before he begins laying into the now fallen tree, the air thick with the smell of pine. He steps over a ways to the mass of branches extending from this now fallen tree, inspecting his simple implement of choice. A notch has been forming for some time in the blade of his axe. He did not mind, as he had been intending to buy a new one for some time, and with the money this batch would bring him he very well could. As he sets into trimming the first of the branches he notices a silence in the area. Where once birds had been singing, and crickets chirping, a dead stillness had come upon him. He abandons his current project in favor of hurrying home, which is not far at all. As he approaches, a familiar smell comes into the air. The smell of unwashed leather, a stench worse than rotted eggs in many ways, especially with what it is combined with. Smoke, a billowing from the windows of his home and a pack of screeching things racing around it. His mind had already processed what had happened, wildlings had attacked. The reptilian humanoids native to this region had been warring with the other powers for dominance in this region for some time, particularly over possession of the nearby city of Crown’s Refuge. If they could not take Crown’s Refuge, they would be happy to exercise their frustrations on a small woodland home. He wonders for a moment, just a moment, if anyone had been there. Then he notes the shut door, and the fact that it is burning from within and his one source of relief is given. If he could scream, he would. Instead, a long, dry hoarse noise comes from his mouth, tears running down his face as he watches the bulk of the wildling war party run away to wherever they came from leaving a few stragglers behind to hoop and holler. Seeing this display steels his resolve, though. He grips his axe in both hands and waits for the rest to be gone a good distance, which would not be long at their pace. With their departure ensured, he makes his way towards them, the axe seeming a toy in his two handed grip. As the cheering reptile-men start to leave, he makes his attack, targeting the two nearest the door to his home with a shoulder long rush. Charging in with the woodcutting axe gripped more like its battle-cousin, he takes full advantage of his surprise, digging his lead heel as he comes to a sudden stop to swing it in a full horizontal arc, letting go with his offhand to let momentum and inertia take control. The singing axe takes lethal effect on one of the wildlings, cutting through its throat like a hot knife through butter. The second one is felled in short order as he follows through with his momentum, turning a full circle to burry the wedge in its stomach, after which he bulls it to the ground with ease before ripping out the axe. Two others turn to face the giant of a man bearing an axe that just trounced their comrades. Gripping spears they both leap into the air, intending to take him down readily with an aerial attack, unfortunately such foolhardy tactics seldom end well. He demonstrates why with a sideways roll, readying an upper swing for when they land. He rises up with his axe in an upwards arc, his full body moving up with the stroke to meet one of the jumpers in the midsection and lift him bodily on his axe. He hefts the screaming and clawing beast onto its surprised partner, and proceeds to make like a raging Wildman, swinging madly at the other, catching it twice with grazing strikes to its defensively raised forearms as it back pedals away from its assailant, finally turning to sprint away from him screaming shrilly into the night. Seeing their comrades dispatched so handily, the other remaining wildlings take flight rather than face his heated rage. He stares now for a long time at the burning rubble that was once his home, wondering what he can do to make his way, something so small and quaint, but to him everything in the world, now as good as gone. He spends the night there, watching his cabin burn to the ground , his axe on the ground next to him as constant company. At some point in the night, he isn’t sure when, he fell asleep. When next he wakes, his house is naught but smoldering tinder and ash, but he has otherwise been undisturbed. He rises to his feet with the aid of his axe like a cane, and slides the impromptu weapon into his belt and begins poking through the rubble. He grinds his teeth in exxhasperation and starts poking through the smoking rubble for a bit. Finding only knick knacks surviving, he decides it best to cut his losses and starts for Crown’s Refuge. He needed, and deserved, a drink to help him start over, for this he heads to the Golden Dragon. "An ale will do me well," he thinks to himself, a mental as well as physical weariness overcoming him in spite of the few hours sleep he had by the fire of his burning cabin, the smell of smoke trapped in his leathers. He looks around to the few morning patrons. The tavern is the last place most people want to be in the morning, or is it noon? He sighs then, pointing to a bottle of Apple Jack Cider, deciding against ale for the time being. The tender knows him fairly well by now, him being a semi regular evening person, so the fact that he is here in the morning is the only real surprise. Wasting no words on one incapable of a verbal conversation, the tender simple sets the mug of fairly strong apple jack before him. He stares at it for several moments, wondering once more what he would do for shelter, no better time than now for such remedies he always figured. He takes a draught from the mug, relishing the cool, refreshing apple flavored burn through his throat, then softly sets the mug back down again. He smiles then, a thought occuring to him. Why couldn't he start over better than before? He knows how to live off the land, he could scrape by off of gatherings, and build something for himself. He had been living out of a hand-me-down cabin home, he could replace it with something more, this would be his goal, he decides. He would make something better. With this, he takes a sip of the apple jack and smiles wider, the tender looking with a quirked brow at him, he ignores this, however. He would figure it out in time. The first problem he would face is location, and with this thought in mind, he would set to motion, killing off the mug with a long draught, rising to his feet after setting it back down and setting a few coins on the counter for the tender. He would not let pessimism get the better of him, he decides. Optimism is the way forward. Part 2 Leaving the tavern, he heads straight to the sight of the burned cabin. It had been a quaint construction, one all inclusive room with a scant attic. Your classic example of frontier construction. He considers all this with an eye to not only reconstruction, but improvement. He realizes that he had wanted more all along, but he did not know how he could get there. As if on queu, he arrives at this conclusion, and at the site of the burning. This had been an act of fate, he realizes. Fate had sent the wildlings to give him a kick start into an open slate to write upon, and he intended right then and there to act on it. His mind swarms with the possibilities, and already he knows that whereever he builds, it is not likely to be here. No, he would move further into the woods and build something grand with his own two hands. What, though, remains the question. A mill, perhaps? That would require him being on the river, and that, by himself, would be asking for trouble at best. No, though he may be simple, he is no fool. He would move deeper into the woods for now, find the best patch of forest for felling, and he would start small, a campsite for the time being, and build upon it into an industrious settlement, yes!, and then... He comes to another realization with this, why should he rebuild at all? Because he wants permanence, but can it not come from deed as well as a thing, he ponders. His parents had told him once that he was descended of Fastheldian blood, Scourges who sought to discover whether or not the Stillwater Lake far to the southeast really offered eternal youth. He thought on this, then, as he stared at the ashes of his woodland home. He thought long and hard as he weighed the oppurtunities presented to him. Adventure awaited, either way. Hard work is no stranger to this man, who worked when others talked because talk has seldom been a luxury afforded him, and never in the usual sense. He looks about him then, shifting his weight in contemplation to his right leg, looking to the forest in general now. Conifers and hardwoods alike, brush, and scrub. and grass all received equal review from him in this moment as he considers his choices. He looks to the brush, thick and colorful with violet berries just coming into season. Their winter colors giving way to spring green. He considers the choice of establishing his own Forester's Guild, and what that would entail. His axe has ever been the guide of his life. In preservation of it, in supporting it, his axe has always been his constant companion. With this thought, he looks to it, his axe in tote with his hand resting on it at his right hip. "I understand wood, but not people," he thinks to himself as he looks to the ground at his feet, a few blades of grass struggling to live in the scant light afforded beneath the shade of tall trees. This has been a constant plague in his life. Not being able to speak to anything but the trees, even as he cuts them down and makes his living from them, he sighs to himself. He looks around one last time, then to the smoldering ruin, and turns to the east to begin his trek. He would decide along the way: to quest, or to build, or both? He walks forth, shoving his way through the brush with the ease and grace of a bear newly wakened from hibernation. The brush and scrub is parted easily with his leather encased arms and form, thorns of little consequence against this. He looks around from time to time as he emerges from his internal reverie, marvelling at that which is ordinary, one might suppose. He looks to the ground for a moment and notices the trail of deer, something he had been following thoughtlessly without consideration as to why he might be making progress so easily. He comes to a hault at a sharp decline. He had reached the downs, he would only have to travel a little ways north to begin on the incline into the mountains, the trees blocking the view thereof from his current vantage point. He looks down once again to note drying of dirt. Just a little ways further and he would start seeing sandgrass and a greater prevelance of hardwoods. He nods to himself and starts on the way down, coming to the bottom of the slope where he would begin his trek anew. He takes a swig from his waterskin, looking about for a moment. A cardinal sings nearby. Moving further on in, he comes to a site with a spring in the midst of a Shardwood grove and it strikes him. "This is the place!" he thinks to himself, feeling good about this particular point. Sandgrass beneath his feet, a spring feeding a small creek, shardwood trees all around. He knows then that this place has been waiting for him. After continuing for a little ways, he comes across a skeleton laying against a tree. At first he is taken aback by this, as any normal person would be, but after a moment of looking at it, he notices that it is wearing a suit of studded leather and is holding something shiny at its side. He approaches slowly, lest any rats hiding amongst its bones take offense at his presence. Luckily enough, none were there, and when he lifts its bony arm, he finds a battle axe. One of archaic make, likely solid steel by the look of it. He hefts the weapon from the soil and bone encasing, brushing away natural debris and swings it sideways against the tree the skeleton is rested against. The metal clangs dully as it impacts, rust knocked free of it falls to the ground in a brown shower. He inspects the weapon with a keen eye, his brow quirked slightly as he notes the detail put into it. The edge at one time had a wavy pattern to it, accented by an etching pattern like fire. On the haft he could just barely make out an inscription reading, “Jeric the Sender”. He smiles to himself, “This one will work nicely.” He looks to the heavens, a smile still on his lips as he grasps his new axe with both hands firmly. It felt good in his grip, the weapon large enough that it looks proper for one his size, making it a formidable weapon indeed. The haft is three and a half feet long, the head one foot by one and a half with a spike for a false head making for an interesting appearance, to say the least. The weapon had waited for him, another stroke of fate, he feels. He looks back to his new weapon with a grin now, he looks to the tree the skeleton was leaning against, “This will be where I will make my mill, and this will be the first tree to contribute to it.” Part 3 There are those that believe that humanity is the end all/be all of divinity, that there can be nothing greater than ourselves for inevitably we tear down anything we deem a possible threat. Lorkan does not believe this, and the reason why is the very reason he has chosen the life of a woodsman, for something has to inspire the creative spirit in humanity, in spite of all its destructiveness. He has stood at the edge of cliffs and looked out at all of nature's greatness in awe, knowing in those moments that nothing human beings can craft can ever match the majesty of such. His personal opinion on this, is that this same force, not any Light or Shadow, is what inspires people to creativity, and for this he worships Nature in all her glory, giving thanks for everything he has gotten. On this day of reflection, he is exercising this force of divinity we call creativity, and at the same time its counterpart destruction, in the process of creating a new campsite for his labors. A logging camp that he hopes will evolve with time. The scent of cedar permeates the area as the sound of iron biting into wood resonates, whiffs of nature's aroma flooding with each stroke of the woodsman's implement as he labors at the toils of his profession. Work is the cost of achievement. Each stroke, he knows, brings him one step closer to actualizing his dream. The discovered treasure of the dead adventurer's battle axe Jerec is propped against a similar nearby tree, its freshly sharpened edge gleaming in the midday sun shining through a parting of the branches high above. He has a smile on his lips as carries on with his work. In time, the tree falls to the ground. A graceful motion in time of nature's bounty yielding to the demands of a man's needs, or perhaps offering itself to the known grateful few. He sighs to himself as he strolls up the trunk of the large cedar to set about the trimming. Thwak, thwak, thwak... One branch after another is hewed with graceful ease as he carries on with his task. He hauls them off in bundles to the sandy clearing, where in time he will shape them as needed. The work of building a functioning, lasting camp site from scratch is a worthwhile task for one who is on his own with nothing better to do. He takes his time pours his pride into his work, and in time this sole tree becomes the foundation for his site. Every part is used, the trunk becomes the support for a hut. The leafy branches become the insulating exterior, the thick branches reinforce the exterior. He takes the ivy vines and collects them into a pile. Dried ivy wrapped like yarn can make impromptu rope, not very strong but for temporary purposes functions. With these he completes his preparations on his temporary construct. By that evening, he had also gathered fallen timber for a bonfire, by the light of this he labors on his hut, having no fear of the green wood of his project flaring up. Lashing the wood together with the ivy vines, he secures its shape handily. With these completed, and plenty left over for future projects, he takes advantage of his new temporary shelter and heads to sleep under the starlit sky. Category:Chiaroscuro Stories